


On Paper

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bookstore Owner AU, But whatever, F/M, I don't wanna tag the other AU cause it ruins the whole surprise of it, Secret Royalty AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons is a bookstore owner, running Playground Bookstore with her best friend and business partner Bobbi Morse. Fitz is her mysterious regular customer, popping in multiple times a week to bicker, banter, and flirt with Jemma. </p><p>After months, he finally asks her on a date. It doesn't end the way Jemma had hoped it would; instead, she learns exactly who Leopold Fitz is. </p><p>He screwed this one up. Royally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Paper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amazingjemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingjemma/gifts).



> Wishing the happiest birthday to my sweet Ole. My life would not be the same without you and I am so grateful to have you as my friend and sestra. I hope you have the best day <3

As soon as he walks in, she smiles. He comes at least once a week, and she can’t imagine that he really manages to read all of the books he buys, but she looks forward to his visits. Bobbi, the co-owner of Playground Book Store, shoots her a knowing look and then nods at the cash register.

 

“I have it covered up here.”

 

Jemma grins and turns off her register. “You’re the best.”

 

She skips over to him, his familiar slim build and green military jacket sticking out in his favorite section of the store. He reads a lot of classics, and she finds him reading the back of Moby Dick.

 

“Now I know you’ve already read that one,” she teases. “You just bought a copy three months ago.”

 

He looks up at her and smiles, that half smile that’s wry and charming that swoops her stomach. “Good to know you’re paying attention.”

 

She blushes deeply and looks away. “Well, I think you single handedly support the store. The least I can do is make sure you don’t double-buy.”

 

“Sometimes I like having two copies,” he shrugs. “My first ones are always so marked up.”

 

Jemma resists the urge to swoon. His beanies and paperbacks and accent have been driving her crazy since the first day he walked into Playground.

 

She and Bobbi had gone to college together, two determined women who dreamed of being writers. They still write, sometimes, but they found that there was actual profit in their independent bookstore. The attached café, Quake Coffee Roasters, also increased their profits.

 

It’s very homey, a squat wood-paneled building with couches and cozy chairs scattered throughout the many stacks. Bobbi and Jemma’s hand-lettered recommendation notes hang down from their favorite books of the moment, and the basement hosts readings and poetry open mic nights.

 

It’s not the dream she always had, but she finds that sometimes the best things in life never are the things you want.

 

So sure, she might have a stack of rejection letters from publishers shoved into the bottom drawer of her desk, but she also has dear friends and a thriving business.

 

Jemma realizes with a start that Fitz—that’s his name, her Scottish frequent shopper—is still talking.

 

“I still think it’s truly the Great American Novel,” he finishes. Jemma scoffs and immediately squares off with him.

 

“Oh, honestly, Fitz! To Kill A Mockingbird is the true embodiment of American literature. It encapsulates the individualist perspective while still maintaining an overarching theme of liberty and equality amongst—“

 

He chuckles, warm and low. “I didn’t ask you for a dissertation, Jemma.”

 

“Moby Dick is boring,” she says haughtily. “And you read very, very boring books.”

 

“What would you recommend then?”

 

She smiles brightly and nods toward the end of the aisle, leading the way to the book she has in mind. She plucks it off of the shelf and hands it to him with a flourish.

 

For some inexplicable reason, he blanches.

 

“The Prince and the Pauper?” he reads aloud. She bites her lip excitedly and nods.

 

“I know you haven’t read much of him, but I promise this one is a real winner. If you’re going to stay in your classics bubble, this is the one to try.”

 

He licks his lips and nods, clearing his throat before he speaks. “Yeah. Uh, sure. I’ll give this one a go.”

 

“Will you be at your usual spot?” she asks. He always takes up the same corner, sits in the same large arm chair. “I’ll grab your tea from Quake.”

 

“You’re too good to me, you know that?” he says. She blushes again, feeling herself grow even more mortified by her childish behavior.

 

He’s just a man. That’s all.

 

“Oh, well, you know…the customer is king!”

 

Now he _really_ looks quite pale, and she can’t understand why. Desperately afraid that she’s made him uncomfortable, she dashes off to the attached café counter for a cup of English Breakfast.

 

Bobbi gives her a look when she passes by. “Get it together, Simmons,” her business partner teases. “You’re practically purple.”

 

“Sh!” Jemma shushes harshly. “He’ll hear you!”

 

“If he doesn’t know you’re in love with him, then he’s the stupidest man on the planet,” Bobbi scoffs. “And given how much he reads, I think that’s unlikely.”

 

Jemma glances over to his corner, where he’s cracking open Mark Twain and getting comfortable. She leans against the counter, tilting her head to the side, imagining what life might be like if she could walk straight over to him and kiss him right on his perfect—

 

“Jemma!” Bobbi exclaims, snapping her fingers in front of Jemma’s face. Jemma starts, shaking herself back into awareness.

 

“Right. Yes. Tea. Sorry.”

 

“Get me a latte while you’re at it!” Bobbi calls out. Jemma dismisses her with a wave of her hand and Bobbi grins. “Oh I see, you don’t wanna crack my binding so I don’t matter!”

 

Jemma retaliates with a rather rude hand gesture that leaves her best friend cackling behind the register.

 

***

 

The next time he comes in is a few days later, wearing that same army green jacket and a maroon beanie pulled low over his ears.

 

“Morning, Jemma,” he greets. There’s a paper cup in his hand and she gasps, placing a hand dramatically over her heart.

 

“Traitor!” she teases. “You went to _Starbucks?_ How will Daisy afford her next meal?”

 

He shakes his head with an amused, affectionate little laugh. He holds up the incriminating cup, shaking it back and forth before ceremoniously tossing it into the trash can to his left.

 

“I can’t let Daisy starve, can I?”

 

“I suppose you can’t,” Jemma beams. She’s sure that Bobbi is resisting the urge to gag. She doesn’t act this way with any of the other customers, only Fitz. He hoists his messenger bag up on his shoulder and she leans forward on the counter. “So, what did you think of Mark Twain?”

 

Fitz crinkles up his face. “It was fine, but it was no Moby Dick.”

 

Bobbi definitely mumbles something about “she wants to Moby _your_ Dick” before hopping over the counter and going to help a very confused looking customer. Jemma spares the man a glance—a few inches shorter than Bobbi who has clearly never been in their bookstore (or maybe any other bookstore) before.

 

“What didn’t you like about it?” Jemma asks curiously. His critiques and analyses never fail to challenge her and push her.

 

She remembers distinctly the first time they’d gotten into it over a book. They fought over Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby when he stayed behind after a reading, offering to put away the chairs with her.

 

It had been the most exciting, stimulating conversation she’d had in god knows how long. She admittedly finds him far more interesting than anyone else she’s ever met, which is simultaneously thrilling and utterly frustrating, since she only sees him when he chooses to come into the bookstore. When she does see him, she follows him around like a puppy, an embarrassing habit that she just can’t seem to break.

 

She’s sure he must be annoyed with her by now, but if that was truly the case—why would he keep coming back so frequently?

 

“I just thought the whole plot was far-fetched,” Fitz shrugs. “Undercover princes and the like—it just felt a bit ridiculous.”

 

He won’t meet her eyes, which feels strange. He usually has an almost disconcerting level of eye contact with her during their conversations. It’s usually Jemma who has to look away.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jemma sighs, leaning her cheek on her hand. “I think there’s something kind of romantic about it, don’t you think?”

 

He starts and she cringes. Using the word _romantic_ in front of your long-time crush (which feels silly to say, given that she’s twenty eight years old and rather too old for things like _crushes)_ is probably a big Don’t in some kind of Cosmo article.

 

“Really?” he asks curiously. “You’d find it romantic if some guy was pretending to be something he wasn’t?”

 

Jemma scoffs, thinking back on her myriad of terrible ex-boyfriends, many of which had seemed to do just that. “Ugh, Fitz! Don’t be ridiculous. I just mean the whole idea of royalty undercover—it’s romantic in the actual sense of the word, not in the modern usage.”

 

He bites his lip and nods. “Yeah, right. Because dishonest is uh—well, it’s very bad.”

 

She laughs lightly, a small breath, and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Of course it is. Why, Fitz? Have any big secrets you’re keeping from me?”

 

He scratches behind one ear and looks up at her with big blue eyes, the kind of eyes she’d do just about anything for. “From you? Never.”

 

A heavy weight temporarily settles over the conversation and she rushes to repair it, confused by the sudden change in atmosphere. Off to the side, she sees Bobbi shamelessly flirting with the confused customer, who sounds like he might be from her side of the pond.

 

Good. Now she’ll finally have something to lord over Bobbi’s head the same way the blonde teases her relentlessly about Fitz.

 

“Any ideas what you’re looking for today?” Jemma asks curiously. She glances around the store and realizes it’s empty, aside from Fitz and the British guy. She comes around the side of the register to meet him halfway.

 

He leads the way deeper into the store, taking an unexpected right-hand turn. “I think I’ve had enough of the classics. Maybe it’s time for something new.”

 

“You hate change,” she reminds him with a smirk.

 

He shoots her a glance, conflicted and dark, before staring straight ahead. “Maybe change isn’t always a bad thing.”

 

She frowns. “You’re behaving a bit strangely today, Fitz.”

 

“Am I?” he asks distractedly. ”Guess I just have a lot on my mind.”

 

“Seems to me that Mark Twain did a number on you,” she jokes. All she wants is to steer the conversation back into their comfortable banter and easy flirtations.

 

“Something like that,” he agrees. Then he gestures at the contemporary fiction shelf, flicking one of the recommendation cards written in her neat script. “So what do you think? Should I read this one?”

 

Jemma shakes her head. “Oh no. You’ll hate that one.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“Because it’s a romance and you’re a grump,” she says, notching her chin up a bit. He laughs, rolling his eyes and snatching it off of the shelf.

 

“A grump, huh?”

 

“The grumpiest,” she confirms, but she’s grinning and so is he.

 

“I could be a closet romantic, you know,” he retorts. “You don’t know me.”

 

She blinks, once again thrown by the direction of their conversation this morning. “I suppose I don’t.”

 

“I’m just a guy who comes to your bookstore,” Fitz continues, seemingly unperturbed by his own strange behavior. “So you know what I like to read, but you don’t—well, you don’t really know me, do you?”

 

Jemma swallows hard, fighting against the sting of his words. “I suppose I don’t.”

 

She spins on her heel, intent on walking to the store room as quickly as she can. She’s not sure what could explain his behavior today, but she’s sure if she spends another minute with him, she’s likely to start crying.

 

“Wait!” he calls out. She spins around and finds him standing there, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes screwed shut. After a deep breath, he drops his hand and opens his eyes. “I’m sorry. I sound like a total prick but I really just—this isn’t—dinner.”

 

Jemma tilts her head to the side, confused. “Of course this isn’t dinner, Fitz. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

 

“No, no,” he protests. “It’s—uh, well—I’d like to—dinner. You and me. Someplace nice.”

 

This may be the strangest thing he’s done all day. Her breath hitches.

 

“Oh.”

 

He reaches out to fiddle with the bookshelf beside him. “Yeah.”

 

“Well—yes. Okay. That would be—that sounds lovely.”

 

His entire face lights up, almost childlike in his excitement. “Really?”

 

“Really,” Jemma agrees. Her smile is so wide that it hurts her cheeks.  


“Great,” he breathes. “I’ll um—I’ll come up with a list of places to run by you. For that.”

 

He’s usually confident, smooth, if anything, a little bit arrogant. To see him behave so shyly and nervously, because of _her_ , sets little butterflies flapping in her stomach.

 

“You know where to find me,” she practically squeaks, and then she takes off for the register. She hears a clattering of books and then Bobbi’s teasing voice followed by Fitz’s clumsy apologies.

 

Finally, after months and months of flirting and dressing up for work just in case he came into the shop—they’re having dinner.

 

***

 

She wipes her clammy hands on her jeans, inspecting her white blouse one more time to make sure that she hasn’t stained it somehow. She glances in the mirror, triple-checking her makeup.

 

A knock on her door interrupts her last hair check and she hops up and down with nerves before swinging open her door with the brightest smile she can manage when she feels so unsteady.

 

Fitz has traded in his army jacket for a sleek grey sport coat, a thin tie and white button down underneath it. It’s hard to imagine that he’s the same guy from the bookstore—she’s accustomed to his slightly disheveled appearance.

 

“Wow,” Jemma says. “You look—fantastic.”

 

He smiles shyly, toeing the carpet in the hallway of her building. “Thanks. You uh—look different.”

 

She cringes and he scratches behind one ear, shaking his head at himself.

 

“Not bad different. Good different. Nice.”

 

Jemma grabs her purse off of the hook near the door. “Oh, so I usually don’t look nice?”

 

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, struggling to find the words to contradict her. Jemma laughs and slaps his arm lightly.

 

“Relax, I’m only teasing, Fitz.”

 

He sighs with relief. “Thank you.”

 

“So, where are we going?”

 

“I think you’ll really like it,” he says. “It’s this great little Italian place down on First.”

 

“Sounds fantastic,” she says. He opens the car door for her and she slips into his sedan. When he buckles up and starts the car, they descend into awkward silence.

 

“This is different,” Fitz remarks. “Seeing you not at Playground.”

 

“It is, isn’t it?” Jemma agrees. She fiddles with the car door and stares out of the window. “So. Other than reading, what do you like to do?”

 

“I write, sometimes,” he offers. She turns to look at him, eyebrows raised.

 

“Oh really?” Jemma asks, drawing out her words in interest. He laughs and shakes his head.

 

“It’s no good, honestly,” he insists. “Just for fun, I guess.”

 

“So what do you _do_ exactly?” Jemma asks. “You seem to have a lot of time during the day to hang around bookstores.”

 

“I work in…government.”

 

“Government?” she questions. “Local, state, or--?”

 

“It’s uh, local. Just local government. A lot of public policy type of stuff.”

 

“Oh, so you write public policy!” Jemma exclaims. He looks relieved, slumping against the leather seat of his car.

 

“Yes, exactly that. I write public policy.”

 

“Well that’s just _fascinating_. What kind of stuff do you write?”

 

“Oh, you know,” he trails off. “Just—the kind of policy that affects the public.”

 

“Oh right, that kind of public policy,” she smirks. “How very specific.”

 

“So tell me about your book,” Fitz says.

 

“You don’t want to hear about that,” she replies, shifting her gaze to her lap. The last guy she’d talked to about her work with had thrown it back in her face in a later argument.

 

She’s always been tentative to share those parts of her life with others, and this is no exception.

 

“I _really_ want to hear about it,” he insists. “Bobbi has gone on and on about how amazing it is.”

 

“Yeah well, she also brags to everyone about my badminton skills, so—“

 

“Badminton, good to know,” he grins. “One game I know not to play with you. I’m sure you’d kick my ass.”

 

She laughs. “I most certainly would. I was the champion at my school.”

 

And just like that, they blow past the awkwardness, giggling about their awkward teen years. He tells her about his ill-fated days playing football, and she tells him about her mortifying experiences trying out for almost every team only to embarrass herself.

 

They arrive at the restaurant and Fitz hands over his keys to the valet parker, another staff member helping Jemma out of the car.

 

“Very fancy,” she comments as Fitz leads her into the restaurant with his hand on her lower back. The maître d immediately greets them, eagerly ushering them into the restaurant and taking their coats.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

Jemma freezes as they reach the threshold of the dining area. “Wow. This is—is this all for us?”

 

“Yeah, it is,” Fitz tells her shyly. “I thought it might be nice to have some privacy. You’d mentioned once that—well, you said that crowds can bother you so I just thought—“

 

Her jaw drops and she can’t help the surprised laugh that bubbles from her lips. “Oh my god.”

 

“Is it alright?” Fitz asks hesitantly. “It’s a lot. It was weird. I’m sorry.”

 

“No, no,” Jemma rushes to say. “It’s not weird at all. I just—wow. This is incredibly romantic.”

 

“Well I think we both know deep down that I’m the romantic one,” he teases. He leads the way to a table in the center of the room, pulling the chair out for her.

 

“Whatever the city is paying you, it’s too much,” Jemma jokes.

 

“I get paid from…private funds,” he explains. He leans forward and his lips quirk up. “So tell me Jemma. Why Playground?”

 

“Have you ever read The Cavalry, by Phil Coulson?”

 

Fitz frowns. “I can’t say I have.”

 

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Of course you haven’t. Book snob.”

 

“I prefer the word _particular_ ,” he interrupts.

 

“Alright, well, Mr. Particular. In The Cavalry, Melinda May is the protagonist. She saves her team and brings them to a secret base called The Playground.”

 

Fitz scoffs. “Seriously? You read thrillers?”

 

“I read everything!” she exclaims indignantly. “Bobbi and I first bonded over that book. We fell in love with May’s character at a time when we really, really needed it. So when we decided to open a bookstore, Playground just felt like the perfect name. It was our secret base, of sorts.”

 

He smiles so affectionately, so warmly, that she immediately feels her heart speed up.

 

“That’s a much better story than what I expected.”

 

“And what did you expect?”

 

“I’m not really sure,” he admits. “I just know that I’ve had a crush on the cute bookstore girl ever since I moved here.”

 

She blushes, staring down into her wine glass. “That crush may be reciprocated.”

 

“Oh,” he laughs. “It _may_ be?”

 

Jemma shrugs cutely. “Perhaps it’s something like that. Where did you move from, exactly?”

 

“I moved from a really tiny country in Northwestern Europe,” he explains. “You’ve definitely never heard of it.”

 

“So it’s the most hipster country in Europe?”

 

He laughs loudly. “We should make that our motto.”

 

“You _sound_ Scottish.”

 

“It’s technically located in Scotland, yeah.”

 

They share a smile and order their food, bickering about books and writing and television shows. It’s the best date that Jemma has been on in a long time—probably ever. She soaks in every second of it, basking in his sweet attention and the amazing food.

 

“You really are something,” she tells him when the meal is over. They stand to walk out of the restaurant, his fingers wrap around hers. He squeezes her hand and she feels a swoop in her stomach

 

He pushes open the door and she steps out. As soon as her heels hit the pavement, a bright flash blinds her. She blinks rapidly. Flash after flash after flash assaults her and she stumbles backward just as one of the photographers calls out.

 

“Prince Leo! Prince Leo! What have you been up to while your country descends into financial ruin?”

 

“Prince?” Jemma asks, dazed and confused by the chaos. Fitz tries to squeeze her hand tighter. She wrenches her hand away from him.

 

“Jemma, please—“

 

“Fitz, what are they talking about?” she asks dumbly. He clenches his jaw, a muscle twitching in his face.

 

“Just let me explain. We’ll go somewhere and I can explain.”

 

A lump rises in her throat, tightening it painfully. She scrubs her hands over her face.

 

“This can’t be—I thought you were—you’re my customer.”

 

“Yeah and you’re the bookstore owner but you’re also more than that, Jemma.”

 

“I can’t do this.”

 

Jemma pushes her way through the crowd of cameras, covering her face. Fitz shouts after her desperately, trying to get her to stay. She keeps running until she’s a few blocks away. She leans heavily against the wall and pulls out her phone to call Bobbi for a ride.

 

***

 

**_PRINCE LEO FINALLY SPOTTED—WITH COMPANY_ **

****

_Prince Leo Fitz, 28, was finally found after almost a year of conspicuous absence._

_He was spotted in the U.S. on what appeared to be a date with a young woman. Sources only got her first name—Jemma—and rumor has it she’s from England._

_Prince Leo Fitz is set to take over the crown in just a few years. Was it cold feet that sent him running? Problems at home? A broken heart?_

_Speculation is abound on his whereabouts and the details of how and why he left._

***

 

Jemma stays home for weeks. She feels guilty for forcing Bobbi to pick up all of her slack, but she can’t face the world yet. Not when her picture has been posted all over the internet and international news sites.

 

Most of all, she’s avoiding Fitz. Bobbi sends her texts, letting her know that Fitz has continued to stop by looking for her. He begs and pleads Bobbi to help him, but her almost terrifyingly protective partner has denied him at every turn.

 

She’s grateful for Bobbi’s understanding, but on the third week of her self-imposed exile, Bobbi comes knocking.

 

“Enough,” her friend insists, tugging her off of the couch. “Get in the shower and get dressed. You’re coming in to work.”

 

“Bobbi,” Jemma whines. “I can’t. I can’t see him.”

 

“Look, it sucks that he lied to you,” Bobbi agrees. “But the thing is, you don’t know why he did. And I know you, you have to know the answer to every question. Until you get that answer, you’re going to keep moping around here and I cannot keep running the store by myself.”

 

Jemma nods apologetically and makes her way toward the bathroom. “You’re right.

 

“As usual.”

 

“Quit while you’re ahead.” Jemma warns. She slips into the bathroom and shuts the door, shutting her eyes and breathing deeply for a long moment. She finally strips out of her sweatpants—which she has admittedly been wearing for far too many days—and steps into the hot stream of water. The shower relaxes her, letting her clear her mind in anticipation of whatever is to come.

 

She’s sure he’s going to show up to the store. After all, he’s been there every day since their ill-fated dinner.

 

It all makes sense now. His affection for the classics, his dislike of the Prince and the Pauper, his occasional strange reactions to phrases like ‘the customer is king’, his whole thing about “public policy” not matching up to his apparently hefty income.

 

He’s _royalty,_ actual freaking royalty, and she cannot quite believe it.

 

“There are way worse things for a guy to lie to you about,” Bobbi tells her when Jemma finally emerges from her bedroom, clean and presentable. “If it makes you feel any better, that Hunter guy is actually Fitz’s security guard. Not a confused customer who’s never read a book.”

 

“Do you think he _has_ read a book?”

 

“Point. I guess he technically was a confused guy who had never read a book, he just wasn’t really looking to buy.”

 

Jemma laughs and follows Bobbi out of her apartment. It’s walking distance to the store, and they stroll slowly, enjoying easy conversation. The closer they get to the store, the more tense Jemma feels. If there’s not an immediate confrontation, there will certainly be one at some point during the day.

 

She doesn’t have to wait long. When they arrive at the doors, Fitz is sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands. He doesn’t even look up at their footsteps, just sighs heavily.

 

“I know what you’re going to say, Bobbi, but I can’t give up. I won’t give up.”

 

Bobbi steps over him to unlock the doors to the store, ruffling his hair in the process. “I’m not the one you need to explain yourself to.”

 

The door creaks loudly and Bobbi slips inside, leaving Jemma to stare at Fitz. He scrambles to his feet, looking like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days.

 

“Your highness,” Jemma quips a bit acerbically. He grimaces and places his hands on his hips.

 

“You have every right to be mad.”

 

“Oh, thank you, your majesty!” Jemma exclaims. “I’m so glad I have every right to my feelings.”

 

“Jemma, please,” Fitz practically begs. “Would you stop? Just…let me try to explain myself, okay?”

 

She considers him carefully. “And if I say no?”

 

He barks out a humorless laugh and looks up at the cloudy morning sky. “Well, then I’ll just have to keep coming back until you say yes.”

 

“Why?” Jemma demands. “You’re a prince. Actual royalty. And you’re so set on _me._ I’m not anything special. I’m just Jemma Simmons.”

 

“Stop,” he interjects. “Don’t do that. Don’t say you aren’t special. You’re the most special thing in the world, and—“

 

“You hardly know me.”

 

“That isn’t true!” he protests. “I know that your childhood cat was an orange tabby named Biscuit. I know you drink your tea with a splash of cream. I know you watch The Holiday every Thanksgiving. I know your favorite authors, your favorite books, what they all mean to you. I know more about you than I know about anyone else, and every part of you—every little bit that I’ve learned has just made me adore you even more.”

 

She swallows hard, summoning all of her courage to look him in the face even as she tries not to cry.

 

“But you lied to me. If I meant that much to you, you would have been honest.”

 

“I ran away from it, Jemma. It was too much. The pressure, the wealth, the constant scrutiny. I never wanted to go into politics anyway, it’s never interested me. I want to be a professor, an English Literature professor. I was hoping that if I ran away and started this new life for myself. No Leopold, no Leo, just Fitz—I was hoping that if I did that, I could leave everything else behind. I could life out my life alone but doing what I loved.”

 

“So what changed?”

  
“You. I walked into your store and everything change,” he tries to explain. “The second I saw you I was a goner and I kept coming back, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I couldn’t help myself, but every time I thought about telling you who I really am I froze up. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want you to look at me or treat me any differently. And that night of our dinner I felt—for the first time, I felt like I could just be a normal person. I _wanted_ to just be a normal person, with you.”

 

Against her better judgment, a slow smile spreads over her face. “You do realize that normal people don’t buy out an entire restaurant for a first date, right?”

 

“In retrospect, it may have been a little over the top,” he says sheepishly. She laughs lightly and steps closer to him, studying his features and searching for any hint of dishonesty.

 

“You can’t ever lie to me again,” she says carefully. “And I mean ever.”

 

He nods eagerly, eyes trailing down to her full lips. “I won’t. Never.”

 

Her close proximity has lowered his voice, made it raspier and wanting.

 

Maybe Bobbi was right. There are worse lies to tell than not telling someone that you’re secretly a prince. Jemma fully intends to grill him on every detail of his family lineage and his mysterious home country but for now, she has more pressing matters to attend to.

 

“We have some unfinished business, Prince Leo,” she says, running her hands up his arms. He audibly gulps and she smiles, leaning up to kiss him. She intends for it to be soft and sweet, the kind of shy kiss one might share after a first date.

 

But she underestimated his desperation for her, his fear that he had lost her for good. His arms immediately tighten around her, spinning her to press against the brick of Playground Bookstore. He protect her head from the impact, deepening the kiss and sighing into her mouth.

 

In all of her years of reading fairytales and romances, she had admittedly fantasized about kissing a prince more than once.

 

Prince Leopold Fitz greatly exceeds her expectations.


End file.
